Permanent Ink
by tweetyviolet
Summary: Alan has a tattoo and it gets him in trouble. But what does it really represent? Brother Bonding. One-shot. Warning: there is swearing.


**This idea just nagged at me until I wrote it. For those waiting for an update of Unnecessary Chivalry or the prequel to Craving Acceptance it should be up soon - I finally have the time to write up some new chapters. Think of it as a Christmas gift.**

**Oh! And... I don't own the Thunderbirds, or I'd be on an uninhabited beach in the Bahamas now.**

**Alan's POV:**

My room is clean. I can see the floor for the first time in weeks. Music blasts from the speakers in the corner of my room, accentuated by various posters of rock bands and DJs littering the magnolia wall. My bed is pushed into a corner, a nightstand - made of varnished wood - by its side and a painting of the solar system mapping the ceiling. A large wardrobe dominates my room, in sleek, black panelling, with geometric white designs forming a never-ending cascade of sparks down the right door. Placed delicately on a stand rests an electric guitar, currently hooked to the large black amp. Are you seeing a theme?

Before everything changed, before the Hood, my room was blue and green. I changed it when I returned from my senior year at Wharton. I decided on a new colour scheme, a new hobby and a new Alan - I didn't want to be _that Alan, _the baby, I wanted to be mature, respectable Alan. So I changed my room, tried to rid myself of the memories of **red eyes **and broken ribs and grief and depression and... and... the nickname: 'Sprout'.

"Alan" Scott's ever-present stern voice called, drowning out the dubstep rhythm pumping from my speakers.

I lope down the stairs with an easy grace and lean, arms crossed, against the doorframe. "You bellowed" Gordon snorts at my tone, Virgil rolled his eyes, John ignores it and Scott gazes at me with his patented this-is-serious-Alan stare.

Scott lifts up a magazine, "What does a magazine have to do with this conversation?" I query in the most insolent tone I can manage. He raises an eyebrow at me:

"You seen page 14?"

"Should I have?" I ask.

Gordon snorts into his hand and mutters "Yeah, I'm pretty sure you should have." I wheel around and pin him with my gaze; he looks far to amused for anything good to come out of this situation.

"_Seriously_, what is this about Scott? I have things that need to be done, coursework doesn't write itself - "

"Unless you pay Sarah Jane down the road to do all your homework" Gordon cuts in, eyeballing Virgil like a modern day Messiah.

"-I have stuff to do, so get on with it." I overlap, drowning out Gordon's admiring tone of voice and Virgil's loud comeback ("HEY! I did some of my work")

"Alan," Scott drawls in a subtle warning, he crosses his arms - bringing attention to bulging muscles, accentuated by the muscle t-shirt snug on his torso. _Wish I could wear t-shirts._

"Pay attention!" Scott snaps suddenly, bringing me out of my reverie. "Alan, you irresponsible little shit..."

I stand straight and take a small step back, lifting my hands in a placating manner, I mouth to John "What's going on?" As Scott continues to rant in the background.

"-I can't believe you did this, the most irresponsible thing I've ever -"

"ENOUGH SCOTT!" John roars, his blonde hair, a lion's mane. He seem to calm suddenly, the end of the eruption that stopped Scott's tirade. "Enough," he seems to pause for breath, "at least tell him what he did wrong first. Not that it is wrong, I mean he's twenty one for God's sake."

John turns to me. "Look Alan, we know about the tattoo." He sighs, seeming too loose all momentum, as I stare, gaping-mouth at my brothers.

"Wh..Waht...What?" I stutter out.

"The tattoo on your back Alan, Popular ran an article all about it yesterday." Virgil explains in a soothing tone of voice.

I turn, punch the wall and rest my forehead against the cool surface. "Fuck!" I mutter under my breath. As my rage builds my hand rears back and explodes. Just before the point of impact a hand strains against my fist - halting me in my tracks.

"Alan...Alan you need to calm down" John murmurs in a soothing tone that relaxes the tension in my very nerve endings. I exhale heavily and lean back against John, tilted head - taking in measured breaths. After a few minutes, the tension settles like a heavy weight on the room, drowning me. I pause slightly, before standing from the slump and thanking John quietly.

I concentrate on my thoughts and address the question bothering me most. "Where'd they get the info from?"

To my surprise, Virgil answers my question with a sharp tone; "Someone spotted you at a dance club."

"Huh," I don't recall going to a dance club unless... "Damn it! I'm gonna' fucking kill Katie" I start pacing, trying to calm down "Private she says - she told me there would be no paps." At this point my hands are clenched, fisted in my hair and I am staring out the window.

Silence is heavy. "Look Alan, they didn't publish any pictures, just ran a story that you have a tattoo" Gordon explains, finally taking pity on me.

"Oh, ok that's not too bad. As long as -"

"ALAN!" Dad roars from the top of the stairs, magazine clenched in hand and the veins in his neck throbbing with anger.

"This is better than a movie, someone should get the popcorn." Gordon comments. I absentmindedly throw a cushion at him, whilst pondering the best escape route. Dad is storming down the stairs, breathing heavily; when he reaches the landing he turns towards me.

"Show me the tattoo." He demands in a low, anger-filled tone. I hesitate and flick my eyes to the door. Dad must be tracking my rapid eye-movement, because he adds a hasty "NOW!" to his command.

I sigh and turn away from my father, pulling my long sleeved shirt over my head. I know the moment he sees the tattoo, as a gasp escapes his lips. "What does it mean?" he queries in a dangerous tone. "So help me Alan, this better not be a drunken mistake or teenage rebellion."

At this Scott snorts "Got enough of _that _when he was a teenager." I ignore the comment and focus on finding the right answer to my dad's question. I can't lie, but I don't want to tell him what it truly means. I don't want to share something that is so intrinsically me that it's personal. Finally, I settle on a partial answer.

"It's a show of control, it reminds me that I am strong, and that I can survive anything - even if I am reborn from the ashes." Dad is still angry but seems satisfied.

"C'mon then Alan, turn around and show the rest of us," Gordon hollers. I smile then turn my back.

"Woah Al, that must have hurt like a son-of-a-bit..." Gordon's whispered exclamation is cut off by a disapproving cough from Dad.

"Who designed it?" Virgil asks me distractedly admiring the artwork.

"Me." I mumble this under my breath, but Scott still catches it.

"You?" He asks.

"Me." I confirm shortly, biting my lip. "Excuse me," I mutter as I shoulder past Scott and nod briefly to Dad (we'll **definitely ** be talking about this later tonight - but I can't bring myself to care).

I dash up the stairs to my room and stumble into the attached bathroom - perks of being the youngest - the room is surrounded by mirrors, giving me a 360° angle view of the room, and myself. My back is adorned with a bold tattoo. A stark black phoenix, etched with Celtic designs, is rising on my shoulder blades; its wings' span my shoulders and creep round my biceps comforting me in an embrace that ends close to my elbow. A dark red and orange flame surrounds the main body of the phoenix, engulfing it. Surrounding it. Suffocating it.

Each wing is adorned with small dark scarlet lines, imitating feathers. A tear slips down my cheek, that my shaking hand wipes as I stare at the small lines inked permanently into my skin.

"What does it really represent Alan" John's voice catches me off guard as I spin around and stumble into the stark white cabinet. I shake my head at him.

"Leave now John. Just _please leave._" My voice cracks at the end of the sentence, as I try to ward off further tears.

"C'mon Allie, tell me please." John's pleading voice coaxes me into answering him. I stare directly at the tattoo, through the mirror, with a hard gaze.

"Each line, is someone I've seen die." I say this in the coldest tone possible, trying to distance myself from my own words. "Every person who've lost that light in their eyes, whilst I stared on, whilst I survived." I continue in a monotone voice, with no inflection. "Everyone deserves a tribute. And if that tribute has to be upon my skin, then SO FUCKING BE IT!" I scream the last words, pouring out every emotion I possibly can.

"Then so be it." I repeat softly. "Because everyone deserves to be remembered, John." At this I turn to my brother, who stares unflinchingly into my eyes.

"Everyone John, the little girl in Peru who died in a tornado, the 15 year old boy caught in a mudslide in China, the 71 year old woman killed by a tsunami, OUR MOM John, who died in an avalanche and that... oh god... that... the 3 year old who died in MY FUCKING ARMS when she couldn't breathe anymore. And it's not fair, it's not fair John, I just...I just can't."

I collapse to the tiled floor and sob unreservedly, for the beautiful girl, with ebony hair and green eyes that gave up on life, at the age of three. I detachedly feel John's arms wrap around me, his lips pressed into my hair- like I'm still a little boy suffering from nightmares of our dying mother, holding her breath so I could live longer.

"Shhhhhh, Al, it's okay, it's okay Allie." John rocks me back and forth in a steady rhythm, calming me completely.

"Thank you." I murmur to John. He just hums in response before bringing us both to our feet.

"Anytime Al, you know you can to talk to us about this (he waves his hand vaguely at my tattoo) anytime." He stresses.

"Yeah John, I know." I wipe my eyes and smile lightly at John.

"Alan..."

"Hhhmmmm."

"Look on the bright-side, you're now more likely to pick up girls than Scott. I've heard girls love 'badboys' with rugged scars and sexy tattoos."

I chuckle gently, well at least I don't have to wear long-sleeves anymore. I must've said that outloud, because John's comment makes my face pale "Don't think that we won't be having a talk about this. You know what? I think we should call a family meeting."

"Oh shit!" I exclaim.

John laughs and slings his arm around my shoulder; before we completely leave, I take a swift look at my tattoo - Yeah, it does look pretty cool, having permanent ink.


End file.
